


Piece by Piece

by Cerententia



Category: One Piece
Genre: I do love death and suffering though, I don't know, I don't know what I'm doing, I hate to give it away ahead of time since it lessens the emotional impact, I'll add more character tags if/when they come up, just a bunch of little things, oh and I'll put warnings in the notes if a thing is violent or whatever, so there will be quite a bit of that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:40:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8329966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerententia/pseuds/Cerententia
Summary: It's a working title, I might change it...but I might not.





	1. Smiles

    Wide and full of teeth, it hardly fits his face, like it wants to stretch and cover the whole world—it really is a good thing he’s made of rubber.

    At first it was a lie, every single bit of it—lies, lies, lies. But under the shade of a straw hat, she was able to find the truth and dust it off, and now it’s like the sun emerging from behind the clouds and full of relief to be alive.

    His grin is daring but his eyes are full of mocking—for himself, for his stories, for his weakness in the face of his dream. But his smile, while smaller, is warm and fond, and proof that he is strong.

    Ninety percent of the time, the reason his teeth are visible is because they’re clenched around a cigarette—but the other ten percent of the time they show that he has suffered through horror and survived, and that he will never let anyone else go through the same.

    It’s strange, and it changes with his forms, but in the end it all means the same— _you’ll be alright. I’ll make sure of that._

    It was tired and it was worn, like an old shirt put on simply for the sake of wearing it—but now it is fresher, still old and too knowing, but knowing there is still more to life.

    Almost more than a smile, it’s a construct unto itself—a memento from his master, and probably, in his own words, _super._

    A skull is always smiling, in a sense, but there are certain ways to tell—when he stops laughing _(sound to fill the silence, bravado to fend off the lurking madness)_ and watches quietly, it’s a feeling that surrounds him, a song of the heart.

    Zoro has tried to see his own smile before, but in front of a mirror it has never appeared, and the rare times that it has—when he’s with his crew, and there are no mirrors handy—it hasn’t mattered. After all, he doesn’t need to see it to feel it.


	2. Friends

    “The Straw Hats sure are something else—they keep _monsters_ as _pets_.”

    An ear twitches and small, furry shoulders hunch, but before he can fold into himself he hears a derisive snort from his left.

    “‘Pets’? We’re all friends here, _idiots._ ”

    Ears twitch in delight at the shocked silence that follows.


	3. Rosewood and Maple

    All she ever wanted was to play the violin. 

    No, it wasn’t right to say _all_ —she had her dream, didn’t she? Yet when she was much younger she had also dreamed of playing the violin. 

    Not that it mattered; tragedy had struck swiftly, leaving no room for a fanciful thing like music. And years of hardship, sweat and blood _(but no tears, never tears)_  had eventually made her forget that small wish. Until…

    Until _he_ joined the crew, his every move full of music. There didn’t seem to be an instrument he couldn’t play, and, oh, how he played. Piano, cello, viola, violin… It was a pretty thing, all rosewood and maple, and the first time she finally dared to touch it she’d held her breath as though it might shatter beneath her fingertips.

    The door had opened before she could snatch her hand away and her eyes met empty sockets. She felt inexplicably guilty, as though he’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t have, but for once she couldn’t muster an excuse. In the end, he was the one to break the silence.

    “Would you like to play?”


	4. what lingers after death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death, but like...nobody's actually killed. They're just dead.

    “Zoro?”

    “What.”

…

    “Zoro?”

    “What?”

…

    “Zoro?”

    “ _What?”_

…

_Zoro?_

    “I swear to god, Luffy—”

    The hand on his shoulder belongs to a boy with a long nose and a scar. It stretches from the corner of his mouth to his chin, pulling it down in a permanent frown.

    “S-sorry…it looked like you were having a bad dream…”

    Oh.

    Right.


	5. Apostle

    He’s an animal, they whisper, a beast.

    A monster—no, a demon.

    But what does that make _him?_ They ask in disbelief, eyes wider than their mouths.

    The devil?

    A god?


	6. Don't Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death, inspired by The 'Tell Me' Game (http://archiveofourown.org/works/2697341) by navitor3 (Blue_Zircon).

    “Zoro,” she chokes, blood on her lips and blood on his hands and blood everywhere except where it needed to _be,_ “Zoro, t-tell me…”

    “No,” he growls. “ _No._ Don’t talk, you need to conserve your strength—” _Where was Chopper? Where was the damn cook? Where were_ any _of them?_

    “Tell me…‘Nami, I…’”

    “No,” and now he’s pleading, trying to stop the bleeding but everything he could use as bandages are already soak through with red and it just won’t _stop—_

    Her hand grips his with all of her strength and it’s too weak _ _—_ she’s dying_ _—_ but it’s strong enough to make him stop.

    “Tell me,” she whispers, eyes bright with the sea. “I…I…”

    He waits, but the words never come; he’s holding his breath for a breath that will never come, and his lungs start to burn and he hates them but they demand and command and take a breath that shouldn’t be his.

    And the silence is broken

    and the waiting is over

    and Zoro does not speak again, because the words he needs to speak were never given to him.


	7. Symphony of One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death, but again it's implied and not shown.

    During the years and years that Brook had spent alone in the fog, he’d learned how to play people. Not in the same sense that Nami would play people; Brook had no skill for leading others around by the nose until they tripped over themselves and gave up their gold.

    No, Brook had learned how to play the _music_ of people. Alone on his ship that was slowly rotting away, the skeleton had picked up the fallen instruments of his friends and played for them, played _of_ them. And when the dreams had fled and he was truly alone, he would take the music in his hands and mold it into the shape of his crew, his captain, and the sound would dance around him and bring the ghosts back once more because even hallucinations were better than the stark and endless solitude.

    So now when his new captain cried out, blind and unable to leave his bed with his words a broken mess but unmistakably a call for his friends, Brook played of _them._

    And his captain would gradually lie back and a smile would twist beneath the scars, and Brook would feel the day creeping closer—the day when he would no longer play _for_ Luffy, but _of_ him.


	8. Dogs of War

    There was a reason that Zoro was called a demon.

    There had been a time before Luffy, and while Luffy had undeniably influenced him, it was that time that had truly shaped Roronoa Zoro.

    And that time had not been kind.

    So when Zoro had stumbled upon the sword, the curse, the bloodlust, and felt his past stirring in response, he knew that he shouldn’t take it—that if he claimed this blade he’d have to take responsibility and make sure that Luffy knew. But Zoro also knew what it was like to be shunned because others couldn’t understand, to be despised for what he was, and he  _understood_ on a level that made his soul hum and ache with the harmony.

    When he got back to the ship,  _Sandai Kitetsu_ on his hip, he told his captain a story about a little boy who was full of rage and a world of steel that was sharp and unforgiving. And he told him that, in that world, there was one man who had not been made of metal, who had reached out to the boy not with a sword but with a hand, and that that man would never have to worry about being in danger from the boy.

    And Luffy nodded seriously and said, “I know,” and if he didn’t understand it was okay because at least he  _knew._  Then his captain laughed and added, “But if I ever need that guy’s help, I’ll be sure to let him know!”

    That night, Zoro slept with  _Sandai Kitetsu_  held close to his heart, and together they created a dream where they stood at the side of the Pirate King and fought back-to-back without shame.

 

* * *

  

    Years later, on an island that teemed with marines and admirals and every bane to the pirate dream, the greatest swordsman in the world fought together with the Pirate King to reclaim their captured crew. But although they were strong the opposition was endless, and the guillotine was rising higher with each passing second and soon it would fall, and they could hardly move without stepping on an enemy who was  _weak_  but there wasn’t enough  _time—_

    And over the chaos, Luffy met his swordsman’s eye and  _screamed_ , and the cry was of havoc, and the demon slipped loose.


	9. To Close Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Oda already listed their specific smells but just hear me out...,, 
> 
> I really love to overthink stuff.

    To close your eyes is to alter the world. Not too much, just a bit; but when it's the whole world, that's actually a lot.

    Bones click-clack over keys, just hovering, wondering, thoughtful. With a playful scattering of notes comes a smell of polish and something that is dry, musty, faint-but-lingering. It twines with the most recent cup of tea _(green, made with leaves and unsweetened)_ and tickles at your nose. If you inhale deeply you might catch a hint of resin and rotting wood, heavy fog and a lack of sunlight, but your lungs would be too loud—and when there's only one person breathing in a room with two, it makes you feel suddenly lonelier than you like. But that's a feeling you'll never know.

    Distinctly you smell hair gel—lots of it. Hair gel and cold metal, cool air and the fizz of cola. You smell well-oiled gears and the sparking run of electricity, the searing burn of latent lasers and welded flesh. It is the smell of a machine. But once accustomed, you can also detect the scent of a million different kinds of tree all cut to length, well-mopped decks, fresh sails billowing and new rope, the grit of sandpaper and the sting of wood finish. Smog from a coal engine mixed with crusted salt, scrap metal and misfired weapons _(betrayal)_ and a howling summer storm that will crush and sweep you away. It is the smell of a human.

    The turn of a page sends a waft of flowers, old  _(dead)_  but not dusty, and fresh coffee grounds. It floats together with paper, the glue from book bindings, and shifted rocks, all over the smell of places untouched, deep underground and far above it, careful breath. Although it is one, they are separate, light to dark; a contrast. At the very tip of your nose you think you might smell leather, worn and carefully shaped, or the smoke that comes from gunpowder, cannons and raging fires, but you can't be sure. It's something you can get lost in if you're not careful, slowly buried beneath until you're suffocating.

    A soft clop of little hooves that are saturated with the smell of the earth, fur that is fluffed and warm and scattered with traces of salt impossible to entirely wash out. Crumbs of chocolate and spun sugar cling to fine whiskers, sweetening giggles and curses of joy. The smell of linen bandages has begun to hang, and just a hint of iron has joined it  _(binding two together; it's frequent company they keep)_. Such a seemingly faint odor has gathered to perfume a stuffy room filled with glass bottles, a uniquely clear scent. Between the tufted fur and skin lingers the chilly breath of permanent snows, winter winds and towering cliffs of ice, the harsh variances of medicines, crushed herbs and shredded roots. Cold stone in the shape of a castle, granite in your lungs, and clinging to it the explosive scent of experiments gone wrong, mushroom spores, and cherry blossoms. They smell of nothing; they smell of miracles.

    Immediately, it assaults you; cigarettes, the ashes and leftover smoke that hang around and cling to suit lapels. However, it's simply a veil for the scent of every kind of food you could dream of, hinted at, suggested, seasoned and spiced and sour and sweetened just so. Mouthwatering. Shoe polish drifts up to be smothered by cologne, tinged with hand soap that in turn covers the smell of flour stubbornly creased beneath nails and of fish scales, fresh and clean. If you concentrate you might catch a flash of sulfur, sparking, flaring, and quickly gone. Focus harder and the fish might not be so fresh, the flour might turn stale, the dirt may layer and the soap might lather chewed fingers, stomach acid, fear. You may smell rust and heavy chains and mildewed stones not meant to be moved—but of course, that's impossible. It's all been carefully covered by years of a floating restaurant, King Ground and _histoire d'amour en bleu._

   From far above trickles down laughter and the smell of a wild garden—rich, black earth, pollen and sap and nectar, exotic plants that stretch and curl and devour; not a garden but a jungle. Running in undertones come abandoned attempts with hair product, the spice of gunpowder, powerful elastic touched with leather, a handful of nails and splintered wood and a concoction of sweat _(sour fear, raw nerves and adrenaline that pushes through)_. The whiff of ocean spray is like a faded perfume, times spent watching the waves from land rather than ship, running on a well-worn dirt path, low notes of someone else's medicine and phantom scents of places only dreamed. It's the old smell of youth, the beginning of a story.

    Most clearly is the tang of citrus, dark leaves and healthy soil, crisp parchment freshly pressed and ink newly crushed and mixed, feathers from birds long dead that are regularly cleaned with alcohol. Dancing through is the smell of well-handled coins, pure gold, raw jewels, and all around drifts sunshine, strong winds and storm clouds heavy with rain, ozone and lightning on the ocean. Beneath it all is a different kind of ink, layered twice, and a brush of the deep sea where humans  _(too weak)_ can't survive. And further, even further beneath, is a different kind of sea that's filled with tears, gentle salt on cracked lips; the smell of secrets made to be kept.

    Masculine and strong—strongly masculine—there's sweat, sometimes dried, sometimes damp, and the musk it brings along, overlaying beer, sake, gin, ale, countless nights spent beneath the sky, long, dusty roads, and the blazing sun. Alone it might be heavy, but it is cut through with the scent of steel and iron, warm metal and bandages  _(protection, faded and fresh),_ and the wide, salty sea, all bound together by the ever-changing wind. It is a comfort disrupted by the clinging waft of blood, old wounds that were unable to heal properly and a body that is used to sacrifice. It is familiar blood—but then there is strange blood, not flowing beneath skin or bleeding through but splashing on, covering, swallowed by the black bandana and never entirely let go. It is not as old as it should be. It is a threat, another life.

    First and foremost you smell a rough-and-tumble accumulation of dirt, grass stains, and the remains of messily devoured food; the great outdoors and vigorous living. An always present sniff of weather-worn, sun-dried straw might tempt your nose to run, but hold back your sneeze and it will pass to reveal the faint stink of trash, the smell of mountains, a small and crowded tavern, a home. Beneath that you may detect a clinging, cloying scent of something toxic, poisonous, that doesn't belong yet won't fade away; and under that a breath of fire, magma, flaming blood that stains a still-burning scar. It smells of pain _(it smells of promises)_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally made up histoire d'amour en bleu ("Love Affair in Blue" if it wasn't grossly obvious enough), but doesn't it sound like a good cologne for him?


End file.
